709. Owls in the morn

Outside their window, owls, heard, not seen. A gentle call of lovers, soothing surrations of throated desire, tolling into the breeze, steady, consistent in the way of a soft rain, in the bend of wrist pouring another's cup full, in eyes bright in the wonders of mysteries known from the first apple bitten, from the first look of desire, from the natural need to seek and be sought.

She rolled into his embrace as a gentle wave rolls upon the shore and where there was the one, in wetness touched, in the sparkling embrace of sea and sand, where sky and ocean meet, where to the bird above the wind lifts, there, was home, that place where eyes closed and dreams danced and time was a door, of a cottage, by the sea.

Upon the crook of his arm, that tender warm angle, she nestled her head, her hair flowing upon the sheets, wanton of nothing but the moment, the soft touch of lips beyond words, of eyes cistern full as after a spring rain. The warmth of the night became the warmth of the morning and sheets white looked as mountain ranges of light and shadow, of dawn breaking into mauve and pink.

I am, she said, healed in your arms, whole again. I am the child of dreams and before me is clover and bloom and the fragrance of fields alive with nature and flutter, of bees and birds, a vibration, an energy known before thought, before conception. I walk, she said, as one walks without time in that place without watch or clock or tick or agenda. I walk with you, she said. I walk because of you.